So his flames must waste away
by GingerRogers15
Summary: Morgoth cannot control his rage when Mairon fails him yet again. Early First Age and beyond. Title is a quote by Thomas Carew.


**Author's Note: Evil for evil's sake is boring. That's Morgoth's job. I believe that Mairon was not always evil and that he was twisted and corrupted by Morgoth to become Sauron. However, with that being said, it should be realized that nobody is ever entirely innocent from the start. And so this beast of a story burst into existence. May or may not be continued, depending on how well I manage to edit Chapter 2.**

 **"Then they will look to the earth, and see trouble and darkness, gloom of anguish; and they will be driven into darkness."**

 **Isaiah 8:22 NKJV**

 **'In Misery's darkest caverns known,**

 **His useful care was ever nigh,**

 **Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,**

 **And lonely want retir'd to die.'**

 **\- Samuel Johnson, English author**

The throne room was black, save for a small lamp that cast an oily glow onto the bare stone walls. The room reeked of blood and carnage, and death, but Mairon did not even flinch as he entered the vast expanse of a room. He was far too used to the smell. His black robes billowed out behind him and his three most trusted wolves clicked obediently at his side as he strode forward to the throne, where Melkor sat, with perfect posture and piercing eyes that would make any lesser creature shudder in fear.

As Melkor turned to his lieutenant, the light of the silmarils on his iron crown shone accusingly on the Maia, and Mairon resisted the unbearable urge to turn away. The wolves at Melkor's feet beneath the throne growled a greeting to their Master, and Mairon commanded the three wolves at his side to join their pack. As the enormous beasts trotted off to find a meal with their companions, Melkor spoke. Mairon could have sworn that his cold voice shook the very foundations of Angband.

'What tidings from your assignment?'

Mairon bowed his respectful greeting and then stood before the throne, looking up into those cold, cruel eyes that demanded an answer. An honest answer.

Mairon put his hands behind his back to hide a slight tremble. Melkor would hate a lie far worse than the truth.

And Melkor always discovered the lies.

'Master,' Mairon began smoothly, 'I am distraught to inform you that the assassination attempt on the heir to the High Kingship, Maglor, has failed. He has most trustworthy advisors.'

Melkor stood, his darkness and terribleness seeming to increase one hundred fold. Mairon felt as though he were shrinking and cowering beneath a giant black mountain, a feeling that he most detested. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin to meet his Master's cruel glare as Melkor looked down on his servant.

'It would seem that I do not have the most trustworthy advisors, Mairon.'

Mairon did not blink. He could not seem to breathe. Those black eyes were boring into his skull and he felt a migraine pulsing beneath his temples. The way that Melkor had pronounced his name left him reeling with a mixture of rage and hatred for himself and his failure and the Vala before him. He tried to control it- Melkor had always been excellent at sensing emotions.

'Were there any casualties on this-' Melkor spat the next word, '-failed mission?'

Here, Mairon knew that he could lie without fear of punishment, and perhaps save himself from punishment by hiding the truth. Attempting to straighten himself just a few more inches, he said, 'There was one Fëanorian Elf wounded, the one that they call Celegorm. One Fingolfinian was killed by one of my knives. I am pleased to inform you that my company lost none and returned completely hale.'

At this, Melkor seemed to grow even larger. His fury suffocated the oxygen from the room. Mairon struggled to maintain a tight grip on his fear. He told himself that he was used to this. This was normal.

'You claim that your company returned completely hale? Why, then, is one of your wolves limping? And what, pray tell, has caused you to be bleeding so, Mairon?'

The voice was dripping with condescension and false pity, and Mairon's fists clenched behind his back as Melkor's long, black fingernails probed the wound in his side. Gritting his teeth as the nails dug deeper and tore tissue and scraped muscle and bone, Mairon only just managed to stifle a gasp. Melkor tsked his tongue as he straightened up again.

'Pity. Elven blades do sting.' Mairon blinked rapidly against black spots that clouded his vision. He was entirely unprepared for Melkor's roar of rage. 'I, however, would not know of such pain,' he shouted, his voice echoing through the throne room and reverberating in Mairon's skull. 'I am much more careful than you. I would never have allowed such a thing to happen.'

Melkor took a step closer to the Maia, and Mairon felt a nauseating sense of vertigo as he attempted to maintain eye contact with the Vala who rose like a black wall before him.

'You are a careless child,' Melkor sneered. 'You make careless mistakes and your lack of intelligence insults me. You embarrass me, Mairon.'

There was a long pause, in which nothing moved and nobody breathed. When Melkor's thundering voice broke the silence it was as if glass had shattered in the room.

'Leave my presence.'

With that, Melkor turned his back on his lieutenant. Mairon was tempted to breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps he would get off easy this time. Perhaps Melkor was feeling merciful.

Mairon bowed to his Master, gritting his teeth at the pain in his side as he did so, and pivoted on his heel to return to his quarters, where he would treat his wounds in privacy. Eru knew he could show no weakness here.

He was nearly out the door when Melkor's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

'Before you go- If may see your sword, Mairon.'

The Maia's blood ran cold. For a moment he was rendered completely speechless.

'M-my sword, Master?' he asked stupidly, and cursed himself to the Void when Melkor growled.

Slowly drawing his sword from its sheath, Mairon offered the blade to Melkor. Melkor, however, did not even turn to face him.

'Cut off your hair,' he said. Mairon somehow managed to maintain a sliver of his pride despite the gasp that escaped his lips. To cut his beautiful hair- it was unthinkable. I cannot.

'Cut off your hair,' Melkor repeated, this time with more force.

Mairon grudgingly lifted the sword to the nape of his neck. His heart was throbbing rapidly in desperation and pain. He felt his blade tickle his neck, and closed his eyes as he began to saw away at the long locks. Long, red hair cascaded to the ground around him like a halo of death. He was halfway finished when Melkor turned over his shoulder. Mairon froze.

'Kneel before me,' he commanded, and Mairon stumbled to his knees in fear of the consequences should he choose not to kneel quickly enough.

Melkor wrenched the blade from Mairon's hand and yanked the remainder of the Maia's hair upwards so that Mairon was being held on his feet by his beautiful hair. With one sharp swing, Melkor severed the long hair from his lieutenant's head and Mairon collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily and trembling slightly.

Melkor threw the blade to the ground and it clattered loudly against the stone. Mairon could not find the will to reach for it. Melkor laughed, and ruffled his Lieutenant's short, spiky hair before he turned to face his throne once more.

'Now you look more like the child I know you to be,' Melkor said, sounding satisfied. 'Get on the ground, Mairon.'

Lowering himself onto his belly and barely suppressing a grunt of pain, Mairon attempted to ignore the stone floor that was sticky with blood and intestine and death. He felt the last shreds of his dignity slowly fluttering away, and he heard the whip crack before he even felt it's bite.

'Do you see now what happens to children who disobey?' Melkor asked as he snapped the whip once more and as Mairon's body arced beneath the pain.

'Children who disobey are beaten by their parents, to ensure that they do not fail again.' Again the brutal snapping of the whip that echoed through the stone hall. 'Are you going to fail me again, Mairon?'

This time the whip cracked beside the Maia's neck, where bare skin was exposed. Red whelps began to form immediately. Mairon tried to breathe deeply. He knew exactly how these whips worked because he had crafted many of them himself. The wooden handle was light for maximum speed, and the long leather tails attached to the handle were filled with bits of sharp metal, bone, and teeth. Many times, the whips with only metal bits inside were heated in a flame to inflict burns. The intention of the whips was to rip apart the skin of the back so that the prisoner would not even be permitted to sleep in comfort. Mairon felt that he had done an excellent job in achieving his purpose when he had designed them.

'Are you going to fail me again, Mairon? Answer me!' Melkor roared, and the whip tore into the Maia's bleeding side.

'No-' came the gasp, and was instantly interrupted with another harsh crack.

'Address me properly, child.'

'No, Master Melkor-' Again the snapping of the whip, and Mairon's black robes finally tore to reveal his open back.

'Answer the question.'

From his place on the cold stone floor, Mairon was trying desperately to take control of his breathing. He was too near hyperventilation. He could not pass out now. The Maia's back arced once more as the whip found exposed skin and tore it open.

'No, Master-' A shout of pain forced its way through his gritted teeth that were ground so tightly he thought they might crack from the strain. The whip's sharp fingers latched tightly into the open wound at his side and when Melkor pulled back on the whip, the wound reopened and bled freely onto the stone floor.

The wolves beneath the throne whined. Had it been any other creature receiving such punishment, the beasts would have launched themselves out from beneath the throne and ripped the creature apart to be their next meal. Now, though, they were torn between their Master, their Master's Master, and the strong smell of blood that began to fill the room.

Melkor turned and snapped the whip in the direction of the wolves- a threat, a warning- and then delivered the same force onto the flesh of his lieutenant's back.

Mairon remembered a time when Melkor had been using the whip to torture an Elf for information, and the Vala had become so enraged that he had cracked the whip with reckless abandon and all the force he could muster.

Melkor was so strong that there had been nothing left of the Elf when he had finished.

Mairon wondered at what point the Elf had died. He wished he had counted the- Mairon hissed through his teeth and closed his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. Maybe it would take more to kill a Maia than an Elf.

He almost hoped so.

Melkor snapped the whip at the Maia's ear and Mairon struggled to hear what his Master said next. His ears were ringing and his back was screaming and Melkor was trying to say something-

' -why you cannot just answer a simple question-'

Suddenly the whip sliced again. And again. And again. There was no pause between the snapping of the whip and between gasps of pain Mairon recalled images of the Elf who had been shredded by Melkor's whip hand. Mairon could only imagine what his own back looked like now.

Melkor whipped his left side and then his right and then back and forth repeatedly, slicing skin and muscle like paper. Mairon ground his teeth together and closed his eyes tightly and clenched his fists, anything he could do to keep from shouting. He had tortured Elves with Melkor enough to know that the Vala enjoyed the pain-filled screams of his prisoners more than anything else. Mairon refused to give him that satisfaction.

Suddenly, the whipping ceased, leaving Mairon gasping for breath on the cold stone floor. Melkor smoothed his dark hair back and straightened his robes that were now spattered with dark red.

'Now, Mairon,' the Vala said softly, with false pity dripping from his vile mouth, 'that was not so pleasant, was it.' He tsked his tongue as Mairon barely managed to stifle a groan. 'Are you going to fail me again?'

'No, Master Melkor-' the Maia gasped, voice thick with pain. 'I will not fail you again.'

Melkor arched his eyebrows.

'Is that any way to pay respect to your Master? On your knees, Lieutenant.'

Mairon tried to push himself up on shaky arms but they refused to hold his weight and he fell to the ground with a sharp gasp. Melkor waited patiently as the Maia tried again, and failed. After the third attempt, the bleeding Maia had no strength left to give, and could only lay prone on the stone floor, breathing heavily from exertion.

Melkor tsked his tongue again, and Mairon hated the sound.

'So it would seem you have failed me again, Mairon,' Melkor said, feigning disappointment. 'Take your leave of me before I kill you where you lie,' he snarled. 'Now!'

Mairon could not walk, but he knew that if he remained his life would be forfeit.

He began to crawl.

At first he dragged himself with his arms until he managed to get his legs underneath him, and then he crept from the room at a painfully slow pace. When he reached the door, he used the wall to force himself to his feet, groaning through gritted teeth the entire time. When he was finally on his feet and had managed to stay conscious, he looked back at the throne room, where Melkor was wiping blood from the whip. Mairon's horrified eyes traced the path he had taken to the door, and he found a trail of blood and scraps of skin and muscle there in his wake.

He nearly lost consciousness then.

But as Melkor turned to face him and snapped the whip threateningly in his direction, and as blood from the whip sprinkled the filthy ground, Mairon forced himself into a run, leaning against the wall the entire way.

Melkor's terrible laughter followed him all the way down the hall.

Angband had never before seemed so large, and his quarters had never seemed so far away.

With every step he became more and more dizzy until he was forced to stop and lean against the wall, lest he fall over and be unable to get up again. The walls were dripping with cool moisture, which gave his throbbing head relief as he pressed his forehead into the stone, but the wet stones made it difficult to stand without slipping.

His legs wobbled beneath him and he struggled to remain standing. He knew that if he stopped moving, he would die from blood loss. He had to get to his quarters to survive.

Mairon was a survivor. Ever since his creation he had adapted to his environment to stay alive, and he would do the same now. He took one tentative step forwards, and then another, all the while leaning heavily against the wall. He would survive.

He desperately wished that he were strong enough to change into a different form, preferably a bat or wolf, so that he could fly to his quarters instead of slowly dragging his body step by painful step up and down slippery corridors and through dark hallways and small passages. To transform into another body would mean certain death for him now. He was far too weak- the strain of the transformation would kill him.

So he kept walking. One step at a time, ignoring the fire that burned his back and side and head.

It was a painful eternity before Mairon stepped into his own hall, and when he finally reached his room and stumbled through the door his legs gave out beneath him. He collided roughly with the stone floor, unable to stop an exclamation of pain that escaped his lips.

He drew himself up to his knees once more, leaning on his bedpost for support and trembling violently the entire time. He could feel himself going into shock. He had seen it happen before, to dozens of tortured Elves, when they lost too much blood or suffered extreme trauma, but although he had seen it happen, he had never seen it treated. Melkor never had believed in treatment, Mairon thought bitterly, his mind settling on a uncomfortable memory of a broken arm that he had been forced to set himself.

Nausea suddenly swept all thoughts from Mairon's wavering consciousness, and he closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his nose. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest, but he knew that his back would make that impossible. It had also just dawned on him that there was no way possible that he could treat his own injuries.

The thought of Orc healers bending over his prone form and experimenting treatments on him nearly drove him off the edge of sanity. Anxiety warped his mind and clouded his reasoning. He could not breathe through the pain and nausea. He could not breathe at all. But he had to focus if he wanted to survive.

'Focus!' Mairon commanded himself, and slapped his palm against the bedpost in an effort to help clear his dizzy head. The nausea was near overpowering now, and he closed his eyes and swallowed in an attempt to push it aside.

It was no use.

His stomach heaved and his back screamed and suddenly he was on his hands and knees and he could not stop vomiting. His torn side violently protested the movement as he coughed and retched, helpless against the nausea that wracked his form.

And finally it stopped, leaving him with an empty and nauseated stomach, the taste of acid in his throat, and a vile smell that made him dry heave several times.

Shaking with exhaustion and pain, Mairon clambered weakly onto his four-post bed and lay on his stomach, incapable of any further movement. He focused on breathing evenly through his nose and he focused on staying awake. He had to stay awake.

And he had to bandage his wounds before he bled to death.

Mairon idly wondered what Mandos would say if he met him again in death. It was likely he would say nothing, as was his wont, but it was just as likely that there was a special place set aside for him in the Halls, where he would languish away for the remainder of eternity.

He could not allow that to happen. He was a survivor.

Groaning, he pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned his shoulder against the back bedpost for support. Then he took stock of his injuries.

The gash in his side, courtesy of an Elven blade, had been reopened by the whip and deepened. It would likely be the easiest to bandage, but from what he knew of healing, it would need to be packed with a poultice and wrapped tightly. Unfortunately, he had no poultice, nor any other medicine. He considered using his ruined robes as makeshift bandages.

His back ... The deep gouges stretched from his neck to his lower back and from side to side. He doubted that there was a single bit of flesh that remained, and he marveled that he was even still alive.

He might not be alive for long, though. He had no means of bandaging his injuries, nor did he have any supplies for cleaning. He did not think he even had the strength to do either, even if he did have the supplies.

For the first time, he felt completely and utterly helpless.

There was no one he could call for help. There was no one he could trust.

But dying alone in his bed was not an option, nor would it ever be. He was a survivor. He was adaptable and resourceful.

His orange eyes flickered to the large flagon of Orc liquor that lay on his bedside table.

* * *

Melkor sat on his throne, deep in thought. He was waiting for Mairon to find a way to clean and heal his injuries so that for his next bout of punishment, he would not be so weak as to be unconscious or killed. Melkor was not trying to murder his Lieutenant, only teach him a valuable lesson.

Too often Mairon returned from an important mission with some excuse for a failure, or some injury with no result. It was maddening to have a lieutenant who could not get things done properly.

The whipping incident was the most brutal that Melkor had ever been with Mairon, and the Vala had more punishments planned for the coming evening. He was furious with Mairon for failing so many times and never seeming to feel remorse for his failures.

Evidently this was the only way that Mairon would learn.

Melkor did not particularly enjoy beating the Maia into submission, but when said Maia was failing and then lying about the failures, the Vala had no choice. In Melkor's mind, Mairon was still but a child, and children had to be beaten down and shown the correct path. Mairon would learn, in time, even if Melkor had to spill every drop of blood in his body.

Mairon would learn.

Melkor raised his head and grinned as a poorly-muffled scream echoed down the stone corridors.

It seemed that Mairon had discovered a way to treat his injuries.

Melkor stood and arranged his robes before reaching for his metal rod, ornately decorated with a leather grip, holes perforating the metal pole, and a Balrog's head at the tip, all of which rested in a pot of coals. Melkor held up the pole and although it glowed red-hot, his blackened hands felt nothing.

It was time for phase two of the punishment.


End file.
